And so now we know the full force of what BJ’s Child carrier
Carrie created; a juiced jubilation after the Cummings and always
Between the blonde beast’s, who seems to rut as most breathe:
What are these women seeing, who marry, or consort
And support him, and hunker on down at the feast?
He seems to have as much pussy as pork, barbequeing on
As he blusters; and now that he has broken the law,
You do wonder if the obscenity of these phrases will be seen
As excessive when assessing his infamous rise without yeast.
For he is not as natural as bread or beer once was in England.
Instead he’s a mixture of poison and pride; a failed ale.
That sours the tongue, even if swilled after sausage. My hatred
For him bests my love of haloumi, the bacon like cheese miracle.
And it will be a miracle now if this signals his resignation.
It will not solve anything, but will salve us as my desire
For his departure rises to become spiritual. Cummings called this.
I’ll give him that; the glum Gollum, inferring as he did
All those months back that Young Lady Macbeth hated him.
Well, we all cheered when he slid back under the rock to roll
Shadows, and clearly Carrie could not contain her own verve
And vim. And yet, that sense of privilege stuns. Its not one rule
For them and one for us. There’s no rules there. What it is
Instead is the madness that Megan Markle has: Narcissists.
And no doubt Solipscists, too, whose Covidic command
Is a cancer and whose empty egos, even if counselled
By Freud or Jung would be able to recognise what
Their cure was, or where the carthasis mark truly is.
And so the Party raged on, as warriors once ravaged cattle.
Pigs in their blankets, not to mention cocktail sausages
For our bones. Suppressed for over a year. Did they bury
The paper plates with pale bodies?And were the morning after
Beer bottles littered around his dream throne? I wonder
If they washed down any pills? Apparently not as they have since
Had their daughter. But what have their taught her? What type
Of person will that baby girl grow to be? An Esmerelda of sorts,
Married like Mum to a monster, or someone as unskilled
And corrupted as the other concubines she will see.
Such as Priti Patel. How I hate saying that name, as I see her.
But also the others who gambolled around on that green.
What could we say they were. Traitors? That word?
Sandwiched inbetween tasters, who while we chewed
On purpose and our sense of self, they quaffed on cream;
Cutting the cake, and cutting us they did so.
And so now, we should slice him. But I feel sick.
Any news of him and them is a virus.
Please, you can have my piece.
Spit his schemes.
David Erdos, 12/1/22